


the holly bears the crown

by crateofkate



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, Poor Life Choices, The Fae being Faey, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:42:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25071826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crateofkate/pseuds/crateofkate
Summary: "Best think of something quickly, before my patience wears thin, or I’ll take what I want in its stead."Jaskier makes a deal.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 18
Kudos: 164
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #003





	the holly bears the crown

_ If life could give me one blessing. _

For two years, Jaskier wandered the continent, trying to outrun those words that haunted the back of his mind. Sometimes,  _ sometimes _ he was able to drown them out, with song and wine and willing bed partners. They always managed to creep back in, however, like the lyrics to a tune that had burrowed within his ear.

Twenty years, and he’d never known heartbreak such as this. It’s a cold rush, realizing you’ve spent the better part of your life, your platinum years, following after a man who’d sooner keep shit on his own shoe then admit to the barest modicum of friendship. It’s kept him awake at night, replaying two decades of interactions, removing the veil and realizing it was, in fact, all within his head. 

This was one of the harder nights. Holed up inside his rooms at Oxenfurt, the winter winds blowing outside, powdery snow that cut across one’s nose like shards of glass. A wine glass gripped lightly by his fingertips dangled dangerously close to the ground, his songbook open on the desk and frustratingly blank. Composing wasn’t the same, and even he could admit to being sick of the constant drivel of heartache that poured forth from his fingers. Misery was the accompaniment of all the great poets, and if this was the price, he didn’t want it. 

Jaskier turned from his seat in front of the hearth to stare out the window into the darkness of the night. It was well into winter, and Geralt would be settled snug into Kaer Morhen. The few stories he’d been able to pry forth from the Witcher included vague descriptions of a crumbling keep, the steady hand of a mentor, and the love of two brothers, not by blood, but by circumstance and choice. Jaskier himself had never been invited to the keep for those four icy months, though he would have abandoned his usual post at the university in a heartbeat, if only Geralt had asked. 

He’d have done a lot of things if Geralt would have asked. 

And this was the crux of the problem, wasn’t it. Well traveled roads in his head all converged back to the thoughts of a Witcher who apparently had only tolerated him for the length of their acquaintance. 

Jaskier couldn’t keep going like this. He could admit it to himself. He wasn’t an idiot, despite what some would argue. He saw the looks he was getting by the other faculty, the students. His friends worried for him, and his enemies slobbered over his misery like a dog with a bone. Already his standing was seemingly tarnished, and the rumors had reached his ear tonight about how he was  _ washed up, out of talent, falling into obscurity.  _

Thus his decision to drown his thoughts in a truly excellent bottle of red. 

He’d given everything to Geralt of Rivia over the years, but he’d be damned if he let his reputation fall into ruin. It was time to take back his life.

Right after a nap. 

  
  
  
  


It took Jaskier three weeks to find what he was looking for in the back of the university library. Dusty old tomes that spoke of deeper magics, rituals long fallen out of use as more convenient means of magic had risen and grown in popularity. The book was old, held together with string and carefully stored inside a wooden box. 

Back in his room, he carefully spread the pages out on the floor, a quill and a notebook carefully balanced on his knee. The ancient words spelled out tales of the  _ fae _ , an old species that used to flit about the lands causing mischief and havoc. As mages and chaos reigned, they’d slipped back to their own realm, petulant and unwilling to share the world with lessers. There was however, a detailed description of a way to summon one. And faeries, like djinn, had the ability to grant wishes. 

Unlike a djinn, however, he couldn’t simply release one and gain the title of master. The fae needed to be wooed, and Jaskier, well, he was nothing if not a prime seducer of hearts. He needed an offering to tempt the fae into a deal, one that would bring an end to all the darkness in his heart and allow him to live his life once more. 

  
  
  
  


He spent the following week putting together a basket of gifts he thought would help him win the favor of the creature he planned to summon. The basket itself was weaved of mistletoe branches, braided with silk ribbons in a deep crimson. A jar of lavender honey from his person stores, a sparkling bottle of wine, bundles of herbs and flowers, tea cakes he’d pilfered from the kitchens, the ring from his right index finger, and other little trinkets as he found them. 

Jaskier set out before sunrise the next morning, bundled in his thick fur cloak and best boots, perched atop the back of a borrowed gelding, and left the city as its residents slumbered in their beds. He had a destination in mind, a clearing he’d used in the past for picnics with lovers, hot summer days spent in decadence, making music with instruments and then again with naked skin. 

He reached the clearing as the first rays of light began to paint the sky, a luminous glow casting the snow and ice in deceptively warm hues of orange and pink. He tethered his horse to a tree and carefully stepped to the middle of the clearing. With precision, he began to walk in a circle, around and around, the snow crunching beneath his feet as he carved out a path and packed the frozen powder down. Inside the circle he set a silver plate with a single candle, and added springs of holly, sticks of cinnamon and sprigs of ginger. His basket of offerings was spread out, and as the first true rays of sun slipped up from the dawn, he lit the candle with a scrap of paper onto which he’d written his full name.

Jaskier moved back to where his horse was tied and leant against his flank. All he could do now, was wait. 

  
  
  


It took the better part of the morning before anything happened. The air was still, but the flame of the candle, now almost melted down, began to flicker. Jaskier’s heart leapt into his throat in anticipation as the color of that tiny speck of flame went to red, green, blue, before finally settling into a deep, glowing violet. 

He made his way back to the circle, looking for further indication his offerings had been accepted. Everything was just as he’d placed it, and he frowned to himself. 

“It’s been many years since I’ve walked this earth, mortal,” a twinkling voice breathed in his ear, and Jaskier yelped, turning quickly only to be caught by strong hands. 

“Oh!” he said dumbly, as he took in the form now in front of him. He - she?- was tall, stick thin, draped from neck to foot in blue silk embroidered with tiny leaves and letters of languages long since dead. Their skin glowed with a soft green hue, and their hair was a rich, vibrant chesnut brown, curing into snowdrops at the very ends. Eyes the shade of autumn stared into his own, lit with amusement and just a little sharp. 

“Why have I been called, Julian Alfred Pankratz, back to this world of men?” Hands reached upwards and Jaskier recognized the ring he’d put in the basket of offerings on a slender finger with too many joints. 

“My heart is deadend with sorrow, and I wish to be free of it’s burden. I am an artist of words that cannot write, a singer of heroes that cannot hold a tune.” Jaskier recited his carefully chosen words, keeping of a mind to hold back the urge to leap into a tangent. The fae were tricky creatures, and he would offer only what he had to in order to get what he needed. 

“Yes, I can see it. Thick black veins pulsing within your aura. You’ve been wounded, bleeding from a rip you cannot see. But tell me, why should I grant you this wish? What can you offer me in return?” The Fae swept a hand around them, and the clearing suddenly looked as if he’d never been there. The cakes, the candle, all of it was gone. 

“I - I brought you-” Jaskier stammered. The Fae looked unimpressed. 

“Shallow offerings. None of it more useful than a slight amusement, all of it ultimately useless. Who do you take me for, Julian Alfred Pankratz? You’re playing with power beyond your imaginings. Best think of something quickly, before my patience wears thin, or I’ll take what I want in its stead.”

Jaskier hadn’t calculated for this. He’d been so sure what he’d gathered had been enough. Maybe - “The horse? I gift you this noble steed, light of foot and pure of soul.”

“Better. Alright, and what did you request in return, mortal?” The Fae swept a hand and the horse began to trot towards them, tack mysteriously vanished. He tossed his head as the smell of the Fae krept into his nose but continued to walk closer. 

“I wish to. To let go of the one who broke me so. His memory has been nothing but a burden, and his love is not reciprocated. I can’t keep going on as I have. My entire life has been dulled by his absence, and he doesn’t wish for my return. I. I want my life back.” Jaskier gets out in a rush. 

The Fae stares at him for a moment, head tilted to the side, before nodding. “I can grant you your wish, Julian Alfred Pankratz.” 

Suddenly, the Fae turns to the horse and plunges their hand into the chest of the great beast. Blood sprays everywhere, and on that day Jaskier learns that horses can scream. 

The magnificent creature collapses to the ground, as the Fae begins to weave magic over the heart held in his hands. It continues to pulse, dark veins creeping over the flesh and sinew until the entire thing is as black as the night. Suddenly, the heart is no longer borne of life, but of metal, and a key protrudes from an ornate plate in the middle. 

“Everything you wish to be free of now resides within this lock. Turn the key, and your burden will be lifted. Open it back up should you ever desire to revisit those feelings, but be warned, once free they will be yours again until your dying day.” The Fae hands Jaskier the lock and key, who looks down at the item in his hands and carefully traces his fingers over the filagree. 

When he looks up again, he’s all alone. 

With a deep breath, Jaskier turns the key and removes it. Slipping the lock into his pocket.

Why was he in a field in the middle of winter without a horse? How had he gotten here?

He looks around and finds no clues. A flight of fancy, perhaps. He’d been known for them in his youth. Ah well, nothing to be done for it. 

Why was he holding a key?

It was a lovely thing, but not to his taste at all. 

He hung it on a branch for the next person to find and began the walk back to town, humming a wordless tune under his breath. 


End file.
